Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (15 page)

However, as soon as we arrive in Padirac, the hint of sun fades and the chill once again descends, wrapping the
vide grenier
in a cloak of grey dampness. France and summer? The two words seem incongruous. Memories flood over Liz and I as we wander round, stamping our feet and rubbing our hands in our efforts to warm up. This was our very first
vide grenier
that we visited together when we met up in France four years ago. We can even recall the
la robe
she bought. She tells me the dress is still one of her favourites.

It is a superb
vide grenier,
full of fascinating stalls
.
We find five fabulous gardening books, including a
nouveau
one by a gardener of repute. This will be a perfect gift for Patrick when we stay in his apartment in Paris. I spend a long time poring over exquisite old linen pillow cases, all hand stitched and many with initials embroidered on them for days-long-gone,
trousseau
. These are the moments I love, for they conjure up so many images of young girls, hair tumbling over their shoulders, as they sit by the light of an old oil lamp, each stitch a measure of love for their imagined future life.

As I linger over my linen choices – trumped by an imperious French woman – when I am finally given the price for my selections, the stallholder directs a questioning glance at Stuart. I have been madly calculating what choices I will sacrifice. He later tells me she was concerned the pieces would be far too expensive. I live for the clear-out-the attic days.

I am always hesitant to ask, ‘
Combien il est
?'for I think the price will be
très cher
. It is not. I am in fact astonished that they are not expensive at all. I scoop up sets of pristine white pillowcases to take home for friends. I move on to find a pair of ice tongs, another tick on the list. They will be used with the Suze ice bucket we found last year, when we serve
pastis
for summer
apéritifs
. It is an essential part of any French household, for
pastis
is the drink of choice for many of our friends.

Returning home, with baskets brimming, we're startled by the sight of a bride in the front passenger seat of a white van, her flowing veil fully covering her face. Even behind it, we can see her face is pale and taut. On the narrow country road, it is an especially startling sight. The trees arc and meet overhead; the roads are slippery after the overnight rain. The way the trees meet so closely, creating a tunnel of gloomy darkness, is a sure sign of how treacherous these roads would be covered with winter ice and snow. I hope they are not a symbol for what may await the bride in the van.

The dark black clouds roll overhead and we stop in Martel just in time to see the fire brigade –
la sapeurs-pompiers
band – and veterans marching to the Cenotaph to commemorate Bastille Day. There is a stirring sense of pride and patriotism in the reverent crowds lining the streets.

The afternoon passes quickly before we set off to our party, leaving Liz to spend the night in Pied de la Croix and immerse herself in the solitude and peace of a Cuzance country evening. And so we have another French evening of utterly marvellous memories. There are so many fragments of the night that lies ahead yet all so smoothly orchestrated to achieve the perfect sum total.

There is the drive itself to Villefranche; the winding roads that by necessity impose slowness and thus the savouring of the rural landscape, as it changes and unfolds around us. There are flatter, drier fields near Gramat, bordered by limestone walls. When we pass the sign for Roumégouse, it never fails to bring a smile to my face. It was certainly one of our more memorable adventures when we set off on a forest walk one day with John a few years ago.

Ah yes, a relaxing walk in a French forest that would bring us out at the end of the trail near Rocamadour, one of the most-visited towns in France. From the outset of our country amble, it was apparent that it was not going to be a simple stroll in the park, so to speak... We drove in off the main road to where we had been directed for a leisurely stroll. The track rapidly became increasingly narrower and the limestone rock walls bordering each field, were in danger of imminently scraping the sides of the car. It was also becoming quickly apparent, the further we ventured, that before much longer at all, the track would simply become so narrow that there would be no way to turn around or even reverse. Before the adventure had even fully begun, it seemed doomed. We stopped. We parked. We set off. The track descended steeply; it was not at all what we had been led to believe from Catherine, who we had rented our house from and whose suggestion it had been. From the outset, the track seemed endless, and confusing in its apparent destination. I spied a length of abandoned blue twine and tied it round my waist. It was destined to be our marker to tie around trees and mark our return. As we plunged ever further down the steep sides of the towering deciduous forest, I took even more care with my Hansel and Gretel trail of blue twine. Before too much longer, as the summer heat wrapped itself around us in the ever-thickening stands of trees, I declared that there was no way I was going to complete the arduous intended round trip. No, John and Stuart, after fortifying themselves in Rocamadour, could trek back, get the car and then collect me. As we continued, we stumbled across several ancient crumbling water mills. The midst of nowhere, yet still the surprise of past relics. Several hours later, after what was proving to be an extremely strenuous hike rather than the intended pleasant forest stroll, it was clear no one would be completing the return trip. Perhaps there would be a bus from Rocamadour that would take us back to our starting point?

As we trudged endlessly through the thick forest, the tranquil sound of a stream lured us on. It was a perfect place to pause for
petite déjeuner.
Thankfully we had come prepared with tasty
baguettes
for our forest adventure. Far from anywhere, we perched gratefully on enormous boulders and let the tranquillity of the forest seep into us. It would seem the tranquillity and isolation were not quite what we thought though.

Apparently alone in our cathedral of trees, the serenity was harshly broken by the entirely unexpected appearance of three dirt bikes that roared along the narrow trail in a blaze of speed and dust.

One of the many attractions of the medieval town of Rocamadour is its stunning views over dramatic vertical cliffs. These cliffs are not quite as attractive when viewed from below and the only option is to scale them. We had all definitely had quite enough of the natural beauty of the Lot. There was no option but to catch the
très cher petite
tourist train to the top. This option did not mean however, that we were prepared to descend again and march back through the forest to retrieve the
voiture
. And of course, there was no bus service. And so we started walking in the blazing heat, along the main road, tourists streaming merrily past, oblivious to our interminable trek back. So, with the universally recognised symbol of an extended thumb, we tried to get a lift. At last, dressed in the readily recognised outfit of waiters the world over, a young student picked us up. Relief flooded through the three of us. However, our driver was perturbed and puzzled by our destination, in other words, not a destination at all... We tumbled out when we spotted the Roumégouse sign on the main road, for all we had to do now was trudge along the track and
voila
, the
voiture
would be waiting, to whisk us home. After a few minutes, we heard the roar of a car behind us. Although obviously already late and racing to get to work, our waiter who rescued us, was so concerned that he had literally dropped us in the middle of nowhere, that he had raced back to ensure that the three odd foreigners were actually where they wanted to be – that is, in the middle of nowhere. We assured him we were. With a final puzzled shake of his head, he raced back along the track, no doubt for an evening ahead full of shared bemusement at the antics of tourists.

I smile at the memories as we continue our drive to Villefranche.
Petite
hamlets are then strung out throughout the green folds of hills: Capendac, Faycelle and Cajarc and one of the names we love the most, Compolibat. The Lot river, sheer limestone cliffs and if it is early morning, the mist, all merge into one. Next are the small villages clustered on the approach to Figeac, each with a church spire that reaches up to the now blue sky and each unchanging for centuries in their quiet rural pace. The expansive views are ever-changing; depending on the season, the small medieval villages surrounded by plunging cliffs and steep wooded valleys. The fascinating medieval villages pass in a mere glimpse; time has not touched them for hundreds of years.

Then, there is the well-remembered sense of arrival in Villefranche at La Closerie; through the heavy wooden gates, along the gravel path bordered by profusely blooming roses, the long table with a heavy white linen tablecloth, set for sixteen and another table with an array of
apéritif
glasses. The scene is set in their pretty
jardin
for a magnificent party. We greet Erick, Stuart's French
rénovation
counterpart, for they can both turn their hand to anything at all when it comes to renovating. Erick's most recent renovation is the conversion of the old bath house that was used by travellers long ago, and is now a charming apartment.

We are introduced to some of the other guests, a number of who have come from Cannes in the south of France, where Brigitte and Erick are originally from. Everyone else at the party is French, so we feel even more special to have been invited to celebrate Brigitte's birthday. We make our way up the stone stairs to wish Brigitte
bon anniversaire
.

She is surrounded by a cluster of her female friends in
la cuisine
. As one, the women all turn startled glances our way. Brigitte calls out frantically to us, ‘
Non, non
,' and we are shooed away like chickens in the wrong farmyard. It is clearly evident that they are in the middle of frantic, last-minute
amuse bouche
preparations.

We make our way back to the garden where champagne and hors d'oeuvres are being served. Some women disappear to change into pretty party frocks. Liz and I have spent a long time deliberating about what may be appropriate to wear for such an occasion in France. I simply have no idea. The steps of Pied de la Croix were the scene of an impromptu fashion parade as I tried on a range of possible outfits to model for Liz, reclining in the front garden; somewhat different indeed to my usual dishevelled state at our
petite maison
. Even the house seemed to raise a wry eyebrow in astonishment to see me attired in clothes fit for a
soiree
. We may not be in Paris, but it would seem there was a reason after all for my unreasonable packing.

By ten however, there is a damp chill creeping across the garden from the Averyon which flows next to their
chambre de hôte
. The women collectively disappear again to grab wraps and change into warmer clothes. Sartorial elegance is abandoned for comfort.

Stuart and I have been placed at opposite ends of the table. He is surrounded by people engaged in a very fast-flowing, impassioned debate about politics and the recently elected new President, François Hollande. Despite Stuey's infinitely better grasp of French and ability to usually follow and take part in conversations, he later tells me that he was completely lost in the rapid fire volley of political comments. While I still struggle, nevertheless later, I am able to exchange conspiratorial knowing looks with Kitty, across the table from me, about our no doubt rapidly expanding waistlines at the end of the rich gourmet
dîner
.

Dîner
is served. The three-course meal is a tribute to Brigitte's extraordinary culinary skills. I am absolutely sure that her restaurant in the south of France, would have had a loyal and devoted following of regular clientele. I know this from the very first exquisite mouthful. Around me is a collective sigh of appreciative murmurs. I eat as slowly as possible to make the entree last as long as possible. It is a sublime medley of light-as-air puff pastry with a layer of
foie gras
adorned with sweet, melting
abricots
that have been poached in butter and sugar. Silence reigns over the table.

The men have gone upstairs to collect the
entrees
from Brigitte's
la cuisine.
When we finish
,
the plates are all whisked away in a wide wicker basket, hauled upstairs on a pulley system that Erick has ingeniously devised. The women then trip upstairs in a clatter of high heels to gather the main course. If it is possible, the main course surpasses the entree. Slowly cooked aubergine with roasted
tomate,
frittata and rare roast beef, cooked to utter perfection, in a smooth, succulent sauce. The sauce is made from highly prized
cepe,
imbued with the dark, secret places of the woods surrounding Villefranche.

Only those who are passionate about mushroom gathering, know the secret caches of the forest and where to unearth them. French people guard their
cepe
secrets closely, for they are the jewel in the crown when cooking.

Dessert is truly the
piece de résistance
, a
chocolat gâteau
simply oozing with decadent richness. Again, a reverent hush falls over the long table. When every last luscious morsel has been devoured, there is a clamour of requests for the recipe. I glance around at the gathered
amis
whose friendships span decades. I notice how French women gracefully wear the lines upon their face like a badge of ageing beauty.

A mere ten minutes after everyone is utterly replete, and has been plying Brigitte with questions about her culinary secrets, there is a distinctive sound of fireworks exploding. We leave the table en masse to gather in groups next to the river. There is room for a few of us to crowd together on the terrace of the upstairs
gîte
. The bridge arching the Averyon is crowded with hundreds of people, who I am sure, have been waiting patiently for hours. For us, it simply unfolds in a seamless sequence from an exceptional
dîner
.